I'm Not Crazy
by SpencerRemyLvr
Summary: A little short with the prompt "hospital" And this is where my mind took it :/


Medication time was always interesting. Nurse Jordan Manuel walked beside his coworker, Alyssa Allen, as they made their way down the hall. Out in the main room, those that could were lined up at the window to receive their medication the same as they did any other day. But Jordan and Alyssa delivered the medication in the hall that housed their patients that didn't leave their rooms. It was a fairly easy job, as most of the patients were friendly. There were a few who were in this wing because their fears kept them from exiting their rooms and they could occasionally become paranoid enough that they either would refuse their medication or they lashed out. For those, there was always security ready on call and Alyssa stayed with the cart, a sedative on hand for emergencies.

Jordan didn't mind this wing. He'd switched over to here two months ago from the main floor and he was happy to work this wing. He'd been working at Rudderton Mental Hospital for three years now and in this wing for two months and it seemed to be a perfect fit for him. He was happy in his job here.

Handing out medication wasn't a bad place to go, either. He liked to speak with a few of the patients. Some of them broke his heart a little, a risk that came with the job. Alyssa had worked this wing for five years and she'd warned him early on to try not to get too attached while in the same breath telling him that it was almost impossible not to. She said compassion was important in what they did, as they were often some of only a handful of people these residents got to see. The last person to work with her had been transferred to a different area when it became obvious that his presence agitated a few of the patients. They believed in trying to make the patients as comfortable as possible. So, the orderly had transferred out to the desk and Jordan had been brought in.

He stepped into Marissa's room, smiling when he saw the young woman rocking in her chair. She was always in her rocking chair when he arrived. The woman said not a word to anyone, but she had taken to smiling at him when he handed out her meds. She always took them without fuss. Alyssa said she was one of the nicer ones on the floor and she was also one they were all fond of.

As they moved on toward the next room, Alyssa gave Jordan a smile. "She sure seems sweet on you." She teased him. The man grinned at her. "Of course. I'm just that charming, Alyssa. Haven't you noticed?" The teasing was playful and easy between them. Alyssa was old enough to be his mother and the matronly woman had sort of adopted Jordan into her care when he joined the wing. They'd made fast friends with each other.

The cart stopped outside of the next room and Jordan gave an honest smile. If Marissa was one they were fond of, than this patient was a sort of floor favorite. He was also one of the ones they were most cautious around. Carefully, Jordan moved into the room, keeping his movements easy and relaxed. He'd been warned early on how to act when he came in this room. Not that the patient was violent or anything; no, really, he was far from it. As Alyssa had told him, "He isn't a threat to any of us. The worst he's ever done is maybe a bruise or two when being restrained. Heck, you can see how hard he tries _not_ to hurt us. If he does, it only upsets him more. But he'll hurt himself without realizing it and without a care."

Alyssa felt slightly protective of this patient. Apparently, he had been an FBI agent before he came here. Now, now he was no longer Dr. Spencer Reid, agent for the FBI. He was simply Spencer, a patient at Rudderton who suffered from an extreme case of paranoid schizophrenia with frequent hallucinations as well as a bad case of PTSD. "He's saved countless lives in his career. The man deserves good care." Alyssa had told him. From what Jordan had read in the man's records, 'good care' had been the last thing he'd received in the early days of his treatment. At first, he'd been housed in the main ward, allowed to interact with other patients, thinking that it would help him to be around people. After just a month, they'd moved Spencer to this wing, not because he was a danger to others, but because others were a danger to him. In his first month, he had seven visits to their infirmary after being attacked in the main room. Because of that, Spencer took to hiding in his room, refusing to come out and refusing to talk. So they had moved him here.

Jordan smiled sadly when he saw the form curled up on the bed. On good days, sometimes you could find Spencer sitting up in bed or even in the rocking chair they kept for him. More often than not, the young man would be curled up in his bed, arms wrapped around his waist. On bad days, he could be found curled up in a corner of his room, or anywhere really that made him feel more safe, hands cradling his head as he rocked and whispered to himself. He often whispered to himself, carrying on broken conversations that were sad to listen to. They were pleas, begging to be left alone, to stop the pain. To go away. Whatever he saw, whatever his hallucinations were, they were not pleasant for him. Spencer had been here for six months already and they still hadn't seemed to find the right medication for him yet. But the doctors were ever hopeful. However, Spencer's case was considered a difficult one. They were having a hard time finding a correct regimen to help with all of his problems. Not just medication, but the correct therapy as well, both mental and physical. Six months and still Spencer was going through physical therapy to help with his healing. When he'd first arrived, he had been seriously injured. The medical records from the hospital Spencer had stayed at before here read like a kind of horror story.

"Good morning, Spencer." Jordan's voice was friendly. He made his way over to the bed, moving to take a seat on the edge. Blankets were piled over Spencer but his head was slightly visible. As was normal, one of Spencer's hands was pressing against his temple, and Jordan couldn't help the little wince he gave at the sight of that thin wrist and the thick band of scars that seemed to wrap around it. His fingers were almost massaging at his temple. The young man suffered from frequent, blinding headaches. Because of that, they always kept their voices low, never sure when his head was hurting or not. "I've brought your meds, Spencer. Let's get you sitting up so you can take them, okay?" He set the two cups—one with water and one with pills—down on the nightstand. Then, with gentle hands, he helped Spencer sit up just a bit against the pillows. He was very careful to avoid touching his skin; it was in Spencer's chart that skin to skin contact often caused a violent physical reaction.

Wide brown eyes seemed to take up most of Spencer's face, drawing the attention straight to them. There was something about them, something that tugged at the heart. There was a pleading look to them that never failed to make Jordan ache a little. The first few times he'd delivered Spencer's medication, the young man had pleaded with him. In quiet, aching whispers, he'd begged for him to not give him the pills. Now he took them quietly, no protests at all. Jordan had no problems getting Spencer to take the pills and drink down his water. Then he helped him adjust in bed and tucked him back in once more. He watched Spencer settle against the pillows. He saw Spencer close his eyes, but not before a single tear escaped, sliding down over his nose to drip onto the pillow.

Jordan couldn't resist brushing a gloved hand over Spencer's arm. "You'll feel better soon, Spencer. The meds should kick in and you'll feel better soon."

* * *

Days go by, one seeming to blend in with the next. Time itself carried no meaning for Spencer. His world did not revolve around numbers any longer. Instead, time passed in stages for him. Morning meds and breakfast were the first part of the day. The next break in time was lunch. After that, time broke once more for dinner, then his shower. After that, time to himself before evening meds. By these events did he judge the passing of time. These were the only things that clued him in to the passing of a day, or of day to night.

Night was his favorite time. Night was when the people around him slept. Night was there were less people in the building, because some went home to their families. Night was when his mind was the quietest. When the thoughts and feelings of those around him were less. It was the time that Spencer still felt somewhat sane. At night, he knew who he was. He could still believe, just slightly, that he wasn't crazy. At night, the pain was bearable. Though not gone, it was bearable. Pain had become a constant in his life. If he wasn't already crazy, Spencer knew that eventually the pain would drive him so. The voices and emotions that weren't his, constantly battering at his brain, ripping him apart, would turn him into a jabbering mess.

Spencer brought his hands up to his head and cradled his forehead, rocking just slightly in his bed. He didn't dare get up. If he did, they might come in here and he would have to deal with one of the orderlies. He didn't want anyone in his room. Night was his time. Night was when he could remind himself who he was. Lying in his bed, he clutched at his head, trying and failing to keep the pain at bay. Trying to keep his sanity underneath it. His fingers felt the short strands of hair, so strange still even though his hair had been shaved short only a week after his arrival. Still, he would reach for his head and still feel surprised at finding bristles and not long hair to grip.

_"…__so tired of this. I want out of here! They're trying to kill me here, I know it…"_

The thought shoved in above the others; a thought he knew wasn't his own. No, no. Curling his fingers, he rocked harder, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear the thoughts of the other patients here. "I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy." He kept rocking, whispering the words like a shield against the voices he could hear. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid. I'm not crazy." _I'm not. I'm not hallucinating. I'm not hearing voices. They're people's thoughts and they're real. They're not products of a sick mind. I'm not crazy._ In the early days, he had held firm to that conviction. Even when he felt like he would shatter, he still held firm. The things he heard, felt, they were not hallucinations. They were people's thoughts and emotions. He had been able to sense them ever since he hit puberty. It was a part of his mutation. _You're not crazy, you're a mutant. You have telepathy and empathy. You are not delusional. You are not a paranoid schizophrenic. You are a mutant._ Only, the more that time went by, the less he believed himself. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was crazy.

He remembered how he had come to be here. He remembered what had put him in this place. They said he'd had a psychotic episode at the hospital and he knew that maybe they were right on that one. The case, that horrible case…he pushed his hands against his eyes to try and block out the images that flashed there. He didn't want to think about that case. Didn't want to remember those seven days of hell. Seven days spent in a living nightmare, tortured and broken in ways he hadn't even known could happen to him. Of course a part of him had broken there. Of course he'd lost it a bit. Who wouldn't have? Who could live with the things he'd been forced to endure those seven days and come away okay? And then the hospital; waking up in the hospital bruised, beaten, bloody, and his mental shields completely shattered. The emotions and thoughts had slammed into him and the pain had overwhelmed him. It had been too much. Just too much. Mixed in with the part that had been broken and what he now could label as PTSD, waking up in that hospital was just too much. Spencer didn't clearly remember all of that time. He remembered the pain and the fear and screaming, screaming, trying to get away. Screaming at the voices to leave him alone. They'd sedated him again. Each time he woke, it was the same, until the next time he woke he was here and they were telling him that he was sick, ill, something was wrong with him. But they would help him.

Only, they didn't help. They hurt. Their pills didn't help him. He wasn't crazy! The pills just left him foggy so that he couldn't think right. They left him weak enough that maintaining his mental shields took all his concentration. Even then, they weren't perfect. Emotions and thoughts battered at him daily, screamed from the people around him. He barely held out against them. But when people touched him skin to skin, he couldn't maintain his shields and everything they were thinking, everything they were feeling, battered at him until his head felt as if it was full of shards of broken glass.

_Maybe…maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe…maybe the doctors are right_. He had kept quiet about his mutation for the first month he was here, too terrified of what might happened to actually tell them the truth. Then, in a therapy session, he had finally blurted it out. Finally told them. And the doctor had taken it all very calmly, not interrupting him. Then he had gone on to explain that he was not a mutant. He did not possess 'powers'. "That is your minds way of trying to rationalize things that it knows are otherwise irrational. You know the things you see and hear are not real. To make it easier for you to bear, your mind has created this illusion that you are a mutant."

It wasn't true! Was it? Spencer was terrified that he didn't know anymore. Curled up in his bed with silent tears streaming from his eyes, Spencer clutched his head and rocked, whispering over and over "I'm not crazy." While all the while, thoughts stabbed at him, driving him a little closer to that edge.

Utterly alone, he repeated the litany and prayed it was true. "I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy."


End file.
